


the duke and the storm

by apostrophe (introductions)



Series: the cosmos and the soul [3]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Difficult Decisions, Foreshadowing, M/M, Making Out, Secret Relationship, War is on the horizon, and a storm is brewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28389450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/introductions/pseuds/apostrophe
Summary: A storm is coming, and Mark seeks Donghyuck out under the watchful eye of the moon god.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Series: the cosmos and the soul [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2075802
Comments: 5
Kudos: 56
Collections: Markhyuck Week 2021





	the duke and the storm

**Author's Note:**

> part 3!! this one is un-beta'd due to a little rush so any mistakes are my own!! the bulk of the story is starting to happen so if you're sick of worldbuilding and me dithering around without writing any plot, i have good news for you!! we are ready for plot. 
> 
> please let me know what you think so far!

Mark Lee has been heartsick for so long he almost doesn’t notice it anymore. 

Donghyuck’s birthday had been especially brutal—it had been a lovely day, too, like the gods were taunting him. _Here is all this beauty,_ they seemed to say, _and no boy to share it with._

Avowed, Donghyuck had had a much easier time sneaking out of the monastery, skipping his lessons or his training to come and meet Mark somewhere far from both of their responsibilities, where they’d drink wine and Donghyuck’s kisses would turn sticky-sweet and warm. And Mark would drink the heat from the slope of his collarbones or the line of his thigh, the curve of his bronzed cheek, his eyelashes golden from all the work he does in the sun.

But that isn't the Donghyuck he'd seen, crouched on the balcony, cloaked in shadows. His face had been sunburned, his hair cropped close, nearly buzzed on the sides. There'd been an edge to him, the lines hardened and solidified. A new scar on his cheek. The tense curl of his body had been familiar, though, and so had the look in his eyes. That, at least, is comforting—that Mark can look Donghyuck in the eyes and still recognize him is nothing short of a miracle.

Mark had chased after him, but he'd been long gone by the time he'd made it out of the garden and into the alley. Jaemin, whose father was the economic advisor to the empress, had looked at him curiously but had commented on it. The party had been thrown by him, and Mark’s mother had needled him until he’d agreed to go. He doesn’t know why she’s so insistent about him getting married—it’s a lot of work, planning, and partying. And besides, Mark is entirely uninterested in every single person she’s introduced him to, because his heart is set on Donghyuck. 

He’s prayed to the moon god for wisdom, to the star goddess for guidance. And Mark is not close to the gods like the Solari are, but he hopes they’re listening to him anyway. He needs all the help he can get. Because he must choose between holding or moving. Does he keep Donghyuck, or does he let him go? 

( _Is Donghyuck even mine for keeping?_ he thinks at night, sleepless in his bed. _Was he ever mine?_ ) 

He goes to bed after hard days aching for the face Donghyuck makes when he’s listening, and he wakes up aching for that familiar warmth. 

But there are things to do and people to see, galas to attend, meetings to arrange. He spends more time with Jaemin, who is funny and quick with his hands. He’s good company, teasing and affectionate, hanging off Mark in a way that everyone interprets as romantic. As the season changes, the rumor mill churns with news of courtship and engagement. And though Mark comes to love Jaemin, lying in his well-manicured garden in the springtime, galloping through the Royal Plains, sharing books and taking dinner on the balcony. Jaemin likes the comforts being the son of a viscount provides; and for a while, Mark wraps himself in the gilded, perfumed world of the monarchy and forgets about the rest. His heartache is buried behind an avalanche of late-spring flowers, silk shirts and expensive fruit. He tells Jaemin about Donghyuck only once. Jaemin listens, and then smiles lazily and suggests they go swimming. 

It works, for a little while. He has the luxury of ignoring the real world, and he takes full advantage of it. 

He is broken out of the little golden bubble by accident. 

One morning he wakes up earlier than the rest feeling strange and restless, like he’d just come out of a bad dream he doesn’t remember. The sun has just risen, and Mark can tell that today is going to be a warm one—summer is right around the corner, bringing their kingdom’s independence day and the Two-Day War, where they’ll honor the time the sun goddess vanquished the army of chaos spinners and won the sky for herself, hanging the sun and the moon next to each other in an act of true love. 

True love that ironically ended with them being ripped from the sky and cast to separate sides of the earth. 

He’s too amped-up to go back to bed, so he heads down to the kitchen to see if they have coffee. They don’t, but one of the cooks is on her way to the market, and Mark asks if he can come along. 

The first thing that strikes him as wrong is the noise. Normally, it’s filled with the sound of conversation and shouting, people bargaining for lower prices and greeting each other. 

But today, it’s quiet, hushed. The number of sellers has been halved, and the people walking around are white-faced, gaunt, worried. A few bow to Mark as he passes half-empty stalls, the prices exorbitant. 

“What _happened_?” Mark asks the cook, who frowns. 

“Nobody really knows, your grace,” she says. “There are murmurs about raiders in the northern farmlands, pirates on the seas, bandits on the road. Some people are even claiming it’s the retribution of the gods.” 

They pay an absurd amount of money for the basics. There is no coffee from Jakka, because their eastern neighbor Aureli has closed its roads.

“How is Seifos doing, then?” Mark asks the woman selling cabbage. “Is the west just as bad?” 

She purses her lips. “I heard they’re doing just fine. I have family that sells over there, and they haven’t had near as much trouble on their farm.” 

Mark gets a terrible, ominous feeling. “Thank you,” he says, paying her three silver for two small cabbages. 

He hands them to the cook as they make their way back to Morningsun Crest, but the gardens and the impeccable row of manors don’t charm him in the way they used to. His mind is spinning with confusion, doubt, fear—Seifos and Aureli have been threatening war on each other for _decades_. If Aureli has closed its roads, then Seifos should’ve been affected, too, right? 

Unless—

He flinches away from that particular thought. _No,_ he reminds himself firmly. _Jiwoo brought peace. The sun goddess is strong, and the Solari protect us._

But something draws him up the floors of the Lee manor to his mother’s meeting room. The doors are shut tight, and Mark can hear muffled voices through the heavy oak. It’s more than one person, and they sound upset. Mark is about to shuffle closer when the door bangs open, startling a few maids dusting tapestries and polishing painting frames a little way down the hallway. It’s one of the Council members—Wendy Kwa, who oversees diplomacy. Her face is red and her frown is ferocious, enough to send Mark skittering back towards the wall. Beyond her, he can see Jaemin’s father, Beomseok, and a couple other advisors. Most of them are on their feet, and all of them look upset, except for Mark’s mother. She just looks tired. 

“Mark,” Advisor Kwa says, not unkindly. “Sorry to startle you. I was just on my way out.” She casts a sharp glance over her shoulder. “I believe we all were.” 

There are nods of agreement from the rest of the advisors, who collect the various documents and scrolls in front of them and tuck them into knapsacks. Mark offers them short, polite bows. Advisor Kwa sets a hand on his shoulder and offers him a grim smile. 

“Do try to talk some sense into your mother, my dear,” she says quietly, just for him to hear. “She is making a terrible choice.” 

She leaves, her gown rustling behind her. Mark’s mother lifts a weary hand and waves him in. “You may as well sit down,” she calls. “It’ll be in the papers soon enough.” 

He comes and sits by her. They’ve never been particularly close, she and him, and the air grows thick with awkwardness. She takes an unsure breath at the same time he does, and it’s so similar he cracks a smile. 

She offers him a soft look, and then taps the map laid out in front of her. Their forces are represented by little golden pyramids. Seifos is blue, and Aureli is white. “You heard about the farms, I’m guessing?” 

Mark nods. “They’re not raiders, are they?” 

His mother gives him a sad look and stares down at the map again. “No. They’re Seifosian mercenaries.” 

“But they attacked from the east, and shut down the roads,” Mark says, frowning, “and that’s—that’s—” 

His mother watches him intently as he puts the pieces together. 

“Mother,” Mark says slowly, “what would it take for Seifos and Aureli to cease fire and ally?” 

His mother taps the vast northern farmland, the ocean, the trade routes marked in spindly black lines, crisscrossing between continents and across oceans. “Desperation,” she says, “and greed. Their people are starving. Their coffers are empty, drained from decades of fighting. They’ve exhausted all of their resources.” 

“And the solution—” 

“Is us,” his mother finishes. “Yes.” She reaches over and nudges half the Aureliate forces into Seifos. “They’ve moved their army to Seifos, and left the rest behind the walls,” she says. “It’s not a direct attack, but it will be.” 

War. 

_War._

For the first time in one thousand years, the kingdom of Nanseo will have to choose between history or victory. 

“You want to declare war,” Mark says heavily, feeling like he’s swallowed a stone. 

His mother nods. “Either we attack first, or they attack the capital. The kingdom will fall before the turn of the season.” 

The last of the gilded dream falls away. The meeting room, with all its fine oak furniture and high, arching windows suddenly feels dark and flimsy. He stares as the little pyramids on the map, a reflection of the forces gathering just beyond their border, greedy for their land and resources and willing to _kill_ for it. 

“I will give my answer at the end of tomorrow,” his mother continues after a long, somber moment. “I need to meet with the Empress, and Chief Xiao. He’s the closest thing we have to a real general.” 

Mark recognizes the name—Dejun, the Chief Xiao’s son, had been at a few of Jaemin’s parties. His father had fought in a series of skirmishes a few years back at the eastern border against Aureli. His mother, despite being the ceremonial general, has no battle experience at all. 

It hadn’t been anything close to what they were going to have to face. The Daijyo are the Empress’s private army, small and barely substantial. And the Solari are protectors, not soldiers. Instruments of the gods, not weapons. 

_Donghyuck,_ Mark thinks suddenly. “Will you—I assume you’ll use the Solari?” 

“If we can get the assistance of the gods, we might stand a chance,” his mother says. “Yes, we’ll call the Solari.” 

A mix of emotion sinks through him. Dread is the big one, but fear is another. Fear for Donghyuck, fear _of_ Donghyuck—of possibly facing him again. 

And then, a thrill of excitement. _He could see Donghyuck again._ “If you march out of the capital, I want to come,” he says before he can think about it. “I can help.” 

His mother frowns, biting her lip. “I would rather—” 

“Mother,” he interrupts, “please. I’ve been taking lessons about this sort of stuff since I could read. And I can fight, too.” 

She still isn’t buying it, so Mark takes her hand and looks her in the eye. “You said it might be over by autumn anyways. I don’t—I don’t want to go down without a fight.” 

He watches her cave, putting her hand over his. “My dear son,” she whispers. “When did you get to be so big? When did you start seeing the world?” 

Mark can’t answer that—doesn’t have the words, really. Especially after he’d spent weeks lounging around, ignoring everything outside the neat stone walls of Jaemin’s back garden. 

“If we go, you can come,” she says. The corners of her eyes droop tiredly, sadness greying her hair and paling her skin. 

“Thank you,” Mark says. It feels like swallowing a stone. 

He hopes he won’t come to regret it. 

* * *

That night, he lies in bed and watches the moon through the curtains. 

It’s late, and he should be asleep, but his mind is spinning. Anxiety makes his stomach knot and his hands slick. 

War is the reason Jiwoo took her people and fled. War is the reason they pray so hard to the gods and have and have several thousand people dedicated to just that. 

They’ve been _good,_ haven’t they? They’ve prayed, listened to their gods, protected their empress. The whole reason Donghyuck isn’t laying here next to him is because of that dedication, that duty. 

Why isn’t enough? Why must they go to war? 

Donghyuck’s face joins the spinning chaos of his mind. He probably doesn’t know—won’t find out until the rest of the kingdom does. 

Mark sits up in bed, suddenly possessed by the urge to see him. Every part of him sings for it, and he feels like he might vomit if he doesn’t get out of his bedroom _right now._

_Go find him,_ something hums in the back of his mind. _See him. Hold him._

He swings his feet out of his bed and pulls on his shoes, opening his bedroom door as quietly as possible. 

The manor is dark and silent, and Mark creeps down the stairs, listening for any maids that might still be up. 

But he encounters nobody. The front doors don’t even squeak when he opens them. 

The moonlight is bright, infusing his body with a strange, silvery feeling. Something tugs in the center of his chest, the same thing that tugged at the party all those weeks ago, urging him to _look up._

The hum in the back of his mind is growing steadily louder, until he can feel it in his bones. The streets are empty, everyone shut away in their houses. They, too, don’t know the fate that is rushing to meet them. 

Mark takes a left, though he can’t be entirely sure why. He knows he’s going the right way, away from the manor and towards the convent, his feet steady on the cobblestone street. He takes another right. 

_Stop,_ the voice murmurs. _He’s right there._

Mark stops by a partially-fallen stone wall, overgrown with ivy and weeds. “Here?” he asks aloud, though he knows he’ll receive no answer. 

Instead, he walks along the side of the wall, running a hand along the uneven stones, looking for a place to get through. There’s a small gap a little ways down, the ivy pushed aside, like someone had recently squeezed through. 

Mark stops. His pulse is so loud he can hear it in his ears, the song of the moonlight humming deep in his chest. 

He takes a breath and pushes through the gap in the wall. 

And there is Donghyuck. 

He turns when he hears Mark, surprise slackening his face for a half-moment. He takes a step back, like he can’t be sure if what he’s seeing is real. 

“How,” he says flatly. “How are you here?” 

Mark thinks about the thread, the moonlight, and all the silver. “Same way you are,” he says quietly. He touches his chest, and Donghyuck’s eyes track the movement. “I needed to come see you.” 

Donghyuck gives him an unsure look. “It’s been nine months, Mark.” 

“And if you were to ask me,” Mark replies, taking a step closer to him, “I’d tell you I feel the same way as I did then.” 

“We _can’t,_ ” Donghyuck says desperately as Mark steps closer. He’s almost within arm’s reach, and the look on his face is so opening wanting, so vulnerable. “Mark, it’ll just hurt more.” 

“I know,” Mark says, stopping short abruptly. “But the regret of _not doing it_ will hurt worse. Can’t we just—don’t you want it?” 

“Of course I do,” Donghyuck breathes, and _he’s_ the one that closes the remaining space to press his mouth to Mark’s. 

Something sparks, and the hum turns warm and satisfied. _Good,_ it seems to say. _Good._

Donghyuck is warm and smells like incense, and his hands, rough with calluses, are familiar against Mark’s skin. Mark holds onto his waist and parts his lips. It turns desperate, needy, and Mark wishes they were anywhere but here, wishes they were someplace where Donghyuck could press him down on something, until the heat of their bodies became one long, steady pulse. Instead, they only have the old wall, the ivy tickling the back of Mark’s neck. 

Donghyuck’s tongue curls around his, and Mark’s knees go weak. He pulls away with a gasp, but Donghyuck kisses his chin and his jaw and down his neck. And then up again, where he captures Mark’s mouth with the same fervor. 

Something dangerous stirs in Mark’s belly, smoldering and hot, and that is what forces him to pull away. 

“We’re in a garden,” he says, out-of-breath. 

“It’s the old Solari training grounds, technically,” Donghyuck says. He pulls Mark off the ivy and into his arms, hooking his chin over Mark’s shoulders. “I’ve missed this.” 

“I think the gods might’ve heard you,” Mark says, bemused, and they both turn to look up at the moon. It shines innocently in the sky, whatever spell it’d cast over them gone dormant. 

“Maybe,” Donghyuck says. He hesitates, and then says, “I don’t think they’ve been listening to me lately.” 

He tells Mark about his twentieth birthday, about what the Solari believed was supposed to happen. Things that didn’t happen to Donghyuck. 

“Instead, I’ve just been having really strange dreams,” he says. “I’m in the sky, overlooking a—a battle, I guess? It’s complete destruction, utter death. And when I try to turn around and ask the sun goddess what happened, I fall.” 

He looks at Mark, his eyes dark and fearful. “I don’t know what they mean. And I’ve been afraid to ask.” 

Mark sighs heavily, and makes a decision. “I do. You’re going to want to sit down.” 

They sit, their backs against the wall. Mark takes Donghyuck’s hand and tells him everything.

Donghyuck’s expression goes from shock to horror to anger, settling on something like resignation. At the end of it all, he nods. He looks as exhausted as Mark’s mother did, sitting at the end of the table and choosing how they’ll die. 

“I thought so,” Donghyuck says. He squeezes Mark’s hand. “We’re not prepared at all, are we?” 

Mark wants to say _yes, actually, we are, and we’re ready to win._ He wants to win this all be done with it all, wants to spare the lives of the thousands they’ll have to conscript, the millions they’ll have to spend on training and arming. He wants to take Donghyuck and run very, very far with him, away from the storm brewing on the horizon. 

But Donghyuck will want to fight—Mark can see it in his eyes. Donghyuck was raised to protect, given a sacred duty to stand tall and protect the kingdom. And he _wants_ to. He will always want to. 

Mark has never been able to stop him. He’s only ever been able to hang on tight and follow as best he can. 

* * *

And so the choice is made: the kingdom of Nanseo, under the Empress Soyoung, will go to war with the kingdoms of Seifos and Aureli. 

Mark doesn’t tell Donghyuck he’s going. He couldn’t find the courage, sitting in the old training grounds, and he’d let Donghyuck leave with regret simmering in his chest. Donghyuck will probably hate him for it, but things had already been tricky enough. 

So the Solari will march west with their shining golden weapons. And Mark, sick with anxiety, sick with love, will follow and pray that it’ll be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> yay ! time to look up how big armies should be 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/idoldimples)   
>  [cc](https://curiouscat.me/conclusions)


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